


Date Knight

by Grenegome



Category: Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Dominance, Established Relationship, Kink Meme, M/M, Moderate Peril, Rescue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-23
Updated: 2012-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-30 01:13:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/326119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grenegome/pseuds/Grenegome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Marcone gets rescued by his boyfriend, and then they have sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Date Knight

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Dresden Files Kink Meme, requested Dresden/Marcone established relationship, with Harry as the dominant partner.

I want to get one thing straight before we start: I still don’t work for the Outfit.

Sure, I’d demolished a gate, two walls, three cars and the ornamental shrubbery between me and Marcone, but I wasn’t motivated by money, or consulting contracts, or threats. I was motivated by the fact that Tuesday night was date night, and Marcone was running three hours late. He gets caught up sometimes, I understand that. But I’d had Hendricks on the phone explaining this was the kind of caught up Marcone couldn’t get caught out of without some heavy artillery, and did I want to swoop in like an avenging angel or should he call a chopper?

So a Mr Gregory Spinelli was now missing chunks out of his mansion, and I was staring at a strung up John Marcone, arms chained above his head to the ceiling of a rather classily decorated library.

“Harry,” Marcone said, “I’m glad you could join me.”

There was a silver tray standing on the reading table beside Marcone, complete with an array of shining implements. It was hard to look away from. “Who tortures people in a _library_?”

“Amateurs who’ve watched too much James Bond, perhaps?”

“You own a mansion with a _dungeon_ , John. You don’t get to comment.”

Marcone went up on tip toe, taking some of the strain off his shoulders. “It’s a wine cellar, you philistine.”

He was ok. I felt a flush of relief as I examined the chains holding him; John was fine. They hadn’t gotten very far, he was still in one piece, not even a rip in his admittedly rumpled suit. And I could probably pick those locks, with the conveniently spiky torture tools that were to hand.

“Company,” John warned me, and I spun, placing myself in front of him.

Tallish guy, slicked back blond hair, and a suit that didn’t look anywhere near as good as John’s. Oh, and a big gun. A really big one. I think he might have been compensating.

“You must be Dresden,” he said. “I thought you were a myth.”

“Spinelli?” I asked, and he nodded.

“Right. I try to stay out of this stuff,” I gestured vaguely, meaning _mafia power plays_ , “but you fucked up my evening plans, so I suggest you get out of here while you still can.”

Spinelli pulled the trigger.

A confused jumble of moments later, he was lying in a crumpled heap on the floor, covered in displaced books and trying to scramble further away from me. “What _are_ you?” he said, shakily.

“He’s a wizard, Mr Spinelli, and more than you can handle,” John answered, unasked. “I suggest you comply. Harry is rather well known for his temper.”

“Keys,” I said, and snapped my fingers. Spinelli fished them out of his jacket pocket and flung them at my feet. Goody; it was refreshing for someone to decide to do things the easy way.

I had John down in no time at all, and he didn’t stretch out his shoulders or rub his wrists; no signs of weakness in front of a vanquished enemy. Instead, he moved over to the waiting tray, and caught up a knife. Spinelli didn’t have the sense to react, all his fear misdirected at me.

“No,” I said to John, quietly.

“My reputation-- ”

“My rescue, my rules. Run him down and kill him on your own time, John. Not mine.”  
John’s mouth tightened, and I met his eyes. “I’m serious,” I said, and let him hear it in my voice.

“So you are,” he said, and set the blade down, as if he’d only been admiring the craftsmanship. “Shall we?”

“We shall. See you around, Spinelli.” I led the way back through knocked down walls and occasional scraps of smouldering metal.

 

I didn’t waste any time after I got John in the bedroom. “Kidnapped? Again?” I asked, as I pulled his jacket off his shoulders and dropped it on the floor. I ignored his protest about creases. “Do you do this specifically to annoy me?” I reached around John, bracketing him with my arms as I worked my way quickly down the buttons of his shirt.

He lent his head back, resting it against my shoulder and looking up at me. “No. Though I admit, it’s a pleasant side effect.”

I huffed and went for an awkwardly angled kiss, before stripping John’s shirt from him as well. “You look good in chains, though. We should get some.”

“Do you have a checklist?” he asked, as I tucked my arms around his waist to unbutton his slacks. “Are you working down a list of kinks?” John liked leaning back into me when we stood like this, reminding himself of my height and reach, how easily I could wrap myself around him and keep him.

“Are you complaining?” I asked, cupping him through the thin cotton of his boxers. John didn’t thrust into my hand; he knew better, but I felt him hold back from a shudder of pleasure.

“Never,” he said, voice rough. I rewarded him with a slow sucking bite to the muscle of his shoulder. I could feel the tension there where he’d been forced upright onto his toes, arms straining with his own weight. I didn’t like it.

“Bed,” I said. “Face down.”

John started for the bed with me right behind him, but then paused to shed his boxers.

“No,” I said, batting his hands away from his underwear. “Leave them.” John stopped and eyebrowed me, so I followed up the instruction by crowding him, stepping in close, face to face, sharing the same air. “Problem?”

His smile was simple in its pleasure, his eyes wide and darkening. “Only if you don’t plan on fucking me, Harry. And I find that works best minus underwear.” I had to bite down on a laugh; John was never shy about letting me know what he wanted. But the authority I was playing with tended to evaporate when I giggled, so I covered my slip by sliding two fingers beneath the waistband of his boxers and brushing across his still covered skin. Tantalisingly close to his cock, but not quite there.

“Oh, they’re coming off John. When I want them to.” I twanged the elastic back against his hip. John didn’t jump, but I could tell he’d had to stop himself from doing so. “Now giddy up. Face down.”

He darted forward and stole a kiss before he complied, turning and lowering himself onto the bed. John crossed his arms across the duvet and used them to pillow his head. The line of his back, the promising curve of his ass beneath simple white cotton, was kind of mouth watering as I stood there and surveyed him, laid out for me.

I left him waiting while I worked out of my own clothes and then climbed onto the bed, settling myself in a comfortable straddle over the back of John’s thighs. Right, shoulders. Lets see what I could do about that.

It wasn’t a massage. It was an indulgence, sweeping my broad hands across his tight muscles, digging my fingers in and arguing with the stubborn tension John carried with him. I got some interesting noises, some tiny growls of pain and satisfaction. But the best part was the slow shallow thrusting as he rubbed himself against the bed, the little hitches of breath that escaped every now and again.

John likes my hands.

I worked my way down his back, and eventually ended up smoothing my palms over his ass, kneading away through the material. He hitched up a little, silent invitation as he managed to force his thighs further apart beneath me, arching back into my hands.

“Yeah?” I asked him, amused.

“Yes,” he hissed. “Yes, Harry. Now.” The tone was close to commanding, and I swatted his ass lazily in response. We weren’t playing things that way.

I knelt up, pulling my weight off him, and he snarled in disappointment. “On your back,” I said levelly, not really giving him enough room to comply. He managed it, wigging beneath me to turn himself over, settling back to watch me quietly. There was color high on his cheekbones, and his lower lip was slick and bitten. It was one of those moments I wished technology would play nicely with me, because this would be a picture worth keeping. I reached forward, slipped my two fingers across his lower lip, into his mouth, just watching him suck me avidly.

“Very good,” I said, grinning, and then pulled back out of his mouth, making a pit stop to brush across his right nipple with spit slick fingers. And then I ran them across the bulge of his crotch, fabric straining with his hard on, obscene spot of dampness where the head of his cock had been grinding away against the mattress. I toyed with him, tracing the lines of his still clothed dick, shuffling back a little and reaching lower to brush across his balls. He was biting his lip again. Yeah, I wanted that mouth.

I lowered myself down, one thigh between his legs, one of his between mine, and I took John’s mouth in a lazy kiss. He was rocking up against me, those tell tale hitches of breath more frequent than usual.

“Impatient tonight?” I asked.

“You don’t usually spend twenty minutes molesting my back,” he bitched, running his own hands across me in illustration.

“I should. I should _definitely_ do that more often.” I liked getting John revved up and ready to go, and this was pretty much perfect. I nuzzled along his neck, bit down, and took his lack of _keep it below the collar, Dresden_ as a personal victory. But I was getting off track. Distractions distractions.

I grabbed the slick from the bedside cabinet and then considered what I wanted. “Roll over.”

“Face up. Face down. Make your mind up, Dresden.”

I tutted and grabbed his waistband just as he began to roll, bringing him to a halt.

“So ungrateful,” I said mournfully. “Such poor manners.” I placed my hands at the top of his thighs, holding him down with my weight. I moved to lay my body between his legs, lowering my head to rest my mouth against his cock. I kissed him there, feather light, and got a noise part way between fury and rapture.

“My mistake,” he ground out, as I brushed my lips across the straining material, barely enough to qualify as a tease, more of a suggestion than a real touch. “Would you like me to ask nicely?”

I huffed warm breath against him. “No,” I said, because we were on my schedule, and his pleas weren’t changing the agenda. I moved my hands, catching hold of the elastic again and drawing his last item of clothing down, slowly, slowly, till the waistband was tucked just beneath his balls, pushing them up towards me in invitation. I had a couple of licks, slurping like he was an obscene ice cream, before pulling back. “Over you go.”

John went, smart enough not to comment this time, and I finished pulling the boxers off him, throwing them onto the floor to join his suit. I opened the lube and trickled it, slick and messy, down the crack of his ass. He let out another breath when it first touched him, cold against his flushing skin. I blanketed him, my own neglected cock riding smoothly along the crack of his ass, sliding across him in one slick tease as I moved my hips back and forth.

“Mmm,” I said. “Some night, when I do want to hear you beg, I’ll do this. Thrust against you till I come, roll you over, suck you off. Just until I’m hard again, not until you finish. Then flip you over, back to this, long and slow. Waiting till you want it hard enough.”

It wasn’t quite words, what I got back from him. It might have started out life as _God_ or _Harry_ or _please_ , but it was throttled by his desperation, and I got a strangled choked off noise instead, sweeter than any plea.

“There we go,” I said, and paused in my thrusting to slick up my fingers. John didn’t get much prep, didn’t want it, so it was a matter of moments before I was sliding home inside him, encouraging him up onto his knees, giving me more leverage to take him by the hips and drag him all the back back onto my cock. “Brace yourself,” I advised, and then went for it, all the fast-and-hard that I’d been holding back on given to him in one mad rush. “Any time you like, John,” I said, and I’d bet my rent he’d deny the noise he made in return was a whine. I wasn’t going to help him; he could come on my cock, or he could wait until I finished and come in my mouth, but I wasn’t breaking my rhythm for a reach around.

He managed it without assistance, ridiculous strength and coordination letting him support himself against my thrust with just one hand, the other curled around his dick, jerking himself erratically, without finesse. I felt him come and rode him straight through it, down onto the mattress as he collapsed, picking up speed instead of letting him rest. I liked him like this, nonverbal and tender, shuddering around me in a fit of hypersensitivity. “Beautiful,” I told him, because I like to get my compliments in when John’s too wrecked to protest them.

He tried to arch back against me, give me a better angle, and that last slide home was a moment of utter perfection; digging my blunt nails into his hips as I came.

I had to clean him up afterwards, because he was all sex drunk and clumsy and unhappy about the idea of crawling out of bed to shower. But I speak from experience when I say a John Marcone that wakes in the morning crusted with sweat and come is a very unhappy John Marcone indeed, so I bullied him under the spray of hot water and wiped him down soothingly.

I love Tuesdays.


End file.
